


When You've Lost Your Way

by strandedchesspiece



Category: SEAL Team (TV)
Genre: Clay whump, Clay's childhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff, Hurt Clay Spenser, Hurt/Comfort, fluffy whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:07:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strandedchesspiece/pseuds/strandedchesspiece
Summary: Clay takes a tumble down a hillside in the dark, and meets someone unexpected at the bottom.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 109





	When You've Lost Your Way

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a little inspo from one of my favourite MacGyver episodes, and sticking with the theme of family - possibly a reflection of where my head's at, as I miss mine terribly (thanks interstate border closures). This one is set season 3, some time after Vic leaves, but before Sonny's outburst at Clay. All mistakes are mine. Stay well, and thanks for reading x

Clay clutched his rifle, heart pounding and adrenaline pumping, as he hurried alongside his brothers through the midnight Ukrainian woods.

The night was dark, shadows deep - though the view through his NODs gave everything an artificial green tinge, revealing every crack and crevice.

The terrain was uneven, dipping away in places, ready to swallow a boot with the wrong step. There wasn't a lot of undergrowth to tangle their feet, but patches of moss were slippery from recent rain, and tree roots rose in jagged knots, threatening to trip them.

They fell into single file, Clay bringing up the rear. The ground dropped away to their left, disappearing into a tight gully and forcing them to hug the hillside. They were heading for the hill's shoulder, where they would then drop down into a shallow clearing to meet their chopper.

"HAVOC, this is One," Jason spoke into comms. "Approaching exfil. How copy?"

They'd eliminated their targets - weapons smugglers holed up in a small village – and had managed to snag a couple of laptops, which would hopefully lead them to the guys further up the weapons-smuggling food chain.

"Good copy, Bravo One," came Blackburn's steady reply. "We've got eyes on your position. Helo is -"

His voice cut off, mid-sentence.

Clay felt his skin prickle at the sudden interruption, and their collective steps faltered slightly.

Blackburn's voice switched out with Davis'. "Bravo, be advised, you guys have company."

Clay shot a glance over his shoulder, senses heightening as he scanned for the new threat.

"Three armed individuals, quickly approaching from your five o'clock," Davis reported.

Clay swung his attention in that direction, just as Jason cursed. They were pinned on the hillside, with no option but to keep moving forward.

"The hell'd they come from?" Sonny growled, a few steps ahead of Clay.

"Copy that," Jason replied, an audible bite to his words.

They'd been told to expect six hostiles back in the village, alongside their two targets – all of which they had eliminated. Either someone couldn't count, or the intel was dodgy.

Most likely the latter, Clay thought irritably.

"Pick up the pace," Jason ordered. "Let's get to the ridge, face them head on."

Clay darted another look over his shoulder. As last man, he felt the responsibility to cover their six. His rapid scan failed to reveal the threat - however, gunshots abruptly rang out, bullets pinging off tree trunks, sending splinters flying.

_Ah, hello hostiles._

The hillside was unforgiving, and there was no way for any of his brothers to easily get off a shot.

Clay paused his steps once again – spinning, scanning; finally catching sight of one of the tangoes. He fired.

The figure crumpled, head snapping back.

Clay lurched onwards, closing the distance to Sonny. "One down," he called, as a bullet bit into a tree to his immediate right.

Sonny cursed, glanced backwards. The barrel of his gun aimed past Clay, and he squeezed the trigger. But the angle was off, and he missed, resulting in a more vicious curse.

"Let's go let's go," Jason ordered, as if they needed reminding.

Brock had point, but it wasn't his pace that restricted them – it was the nature of the terrain.

Another shot sent a shower of splinters, frighteningly close to Sonny's head. Clay swung his rifle around again, lined up the shot and dropped another tango.

"Two down," he called, just a hint of triumph in his tone.

Unfortunately, the last unfriendly got lucky with their aim.

Just as Clay began running again, he felt pain flare through his left calf. His knee buckled, sending him pitching forwards. He flung out a hand to catch himself – only his gloved palm met air instead of earth. Within half a heartbeat, he was tumbling violently downhill.

Down, down, down; battered against rocks and roots, scrambling to get a hand or foothold - anything to stop his sickening momentum.

Thankfully, his downhill journey didn't last all that long. It ended as abruptly as it had started - his body slamming into a tree.

The inky blackness of the midnight woods quickly snatched him away.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

Clay cracked open his eyes, breathed a groan.

_The hell happened?_

Hazily, he took stock of his situation.

Unnerving darkness pressed around him. Silence.

He tested his arms, thankfully able to move them. He tested his legs –

A sharp hiss fell over his lips, drawing him mostly upright as he scrunched in pain.

Wobbling the rest of the way forwards, he grabbed his left leg. Pulling off a glove, he discovered that the trouser material was torn; wet, warm, and sticky around his calf. The stickiness transferred to his fingers, and he gingerly probed the area.

His agonizing investigation found a deep wound, running along the edge of his calf.

Blinking dazedly, Clay racked his brain.

Where the hell was he, and how had he got here?

His mind drew a blank, pulling his attention instead to the pounding in his head. Had it been pounding when he'd woken up? Even the past minute felt difficult to recall.

Reaching a shaky hand, his fingers brushed against more sticky dampness, this time near his hairline – as well as bumping against the rim of his helmet. A wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing his eyes closed for a moment.

Knock to the head, then.

Fucking brilliant.

Reaching back up to his helmet, he felt for his NODs - groaning when his search turned up nothing. His headlamp was also missing. They must have been knocked free, during …

Whatever the hell had happened to him.

Patting his vest, he found his radio. But that relief didn't last, when he realized it was broken.

And, of course, his rifle was also nowhere to be found.

Tuning his ears in to the night around him, Clay listened intently. Surely, he'd been with his brothers. Surely, they were searching for him.

But the night was still, eerily quiet - nothing but the pounding of his heart and the light ringing of his ears.

Running his hands over the lumpy ground, he traced gloved fingers over the knobbly forest floor. A glance upwards revealed the very faint outline of bare branches, their thousand crooked fingers reaching for the sky. A new moon darted in and out of drifting clouds, its light barely enough to break the darkness.

Clay felt anxiety unfurl within his gut.

He was obviously on an op, but he couldn't recall where, or what he'd been doing. He had to assume he was in unfriendly territory. He had to trust that his brothers would come for him.

Something felt very off, but his limited energy and focus were taken up by his concentration to keep his eyes open and breathe through the pain in his leg. Joining the puzzle pieces would have to wait. Right now, his gut told him to get moving.

Grasping around for a handhold, Clay managed to grip a raised root. Slowly, he pushed himself upright, leaning his back against the rough trunk of a tree.

Once he was standing, he took a moment to catch his breath, reorient himself.

Without a flashlight, it was difficult to form a picture of where he was. Pulling off a glove, he ran fingers along bark, feeling the telltale sponginess of moss. There was a lot of it, indicating he was somewhere that didn't see much sun. The way the darkness pooled and gathered suggested some sort of depression, like a gully. He could just make out the shapes of other trees around him, and he took a tentative step, reaching for the nearest one for balance.

Though his leg protested, Clay managed to move himself slowly. Gradually, he made his way forwards through the darkness, going from tree to tree. He had no idea where he was headed, but he felt like moving was a better option than staying still.

Unfortunately, between the burn in his leg and the aching in his head, he barely made it ten feet before collapsing against a moss-covered trunk. Shaking with defeat, he lowered himself back down to the damp ground.

Tears prickled – half from exertion, half from his growing sense of distress. Clay squeezed his eyes closed, swallowing against a wave of dizziness.

The fact that he couldn't get his bearings was disorienting. He felt like his senses weren't properly online, and panic was creeping in.

In the darkness, unable to defend himself or even recall what he was doing here, he felt terribly vulnerable. And though he kept scanning for his brothers, the stillness around him screamed that he was very much alone.

Letting his head tilt back against the rough bark, Clay counted breaths, trying to get a better grip on reality. If he could clear his thoughts, just a little, perhaps he might be able to figure out what to do.

Gaze swimming, he squinted through the darkness. For a moment, he thought he caught sight of something.

A light?

Rubbing his eyes, he tried to work out if he'd imagined it.

It shimmered back into view, and Clay's breath caught as he wondered whether it belonged to friend or foe.

The light grew brighter, blinking in and out as its owner navigated the uneven ground, weaving through the trees.

Clay's chest tightened. He had no weapon, a bleeding leg, and most likely a concussion - he was a sitting duck. Steeling himself as best he could, he braced for a fight.

The light drew closer, casting a warm glow. As it approached, Clay could just make out the figure of a man – though his features were obscured by the light, which Clay could now see was a lantern.

The man's steps faltered, and he paused, catching sight of Clay.

Clay couldn't help but curl away from the brightness of the light as the lantern was held towards him. His head pounded, and for a moment, his vision greyed out.

The figure came to a crouch before Clay, placed the lantern upon the ground.

Clay pried open his eyes, forcing them to focus as he met the stranger's gaze.

 _Not a stranger_.

Clay's breath caught, recognition jolting through him – followed quickly by a wave of fuzzy confusion.

The man's eyes softened, their corners crinkling in a way that Clay knew all too well - and had missed so damned much.

" _Grandad_?" Clay's voice was a choked whisper.

It wasn't possible – _couldn't_ be possible. But then, not much about his current situation was making sense, so perhaps seeing his dead grandfather wasn't so strange.

"Seems you've lost your way, kiddo," the older man offered warmly.

Clay felt a lump swell in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, so many conversations he'd longed for. But his words stuck and all he managed was a jerky nod, eyes prickling once again.

His grandfather regarded him gently, reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out something small and round that glinted gold in the soft light.

Clay's gaze settled on the object. He felt a small smile ghost his lips, as he regarded the old compass. Reaching out and lifting it, he rubbed fingers over its smooth, familiar surface. The weight in his hand felt reassuring, comforting – somehow, like home.

As a small child, Clay had been fascinated by the shiny object – the way the needle turned with his own movements, the golden rim and frame. Just before he'd returned to the States, his grandfather had gifted it to him.

"Do you remember what I told you?" the older man prompted. "Why I gave this to you?"

Clay's voice was lost, a sea of memories crashing within him. His vision blurred as a tear rolled down his cheek. He looked between the object, and the man who'd played such a huge role in raising him – the familiar jacket, laugh-lines, the faint smell of motor oil and turpentine. He swallowed jaggedly, recalling the moment, all those years ago. "To remind me where I've come from," he answered quietly.

"Because sometimes," his grandad added gently, reaching out and closing Clay's fingers around the object, "in order to find your way forward, you first need to remember where you've been."

Clay felt his bottom lip tremble, a painful weight within him. "I feel like I've lost sight of both those things," he whispered brokenly.

His grandfather's touch upon his arm was warm. "You'll find your way again, son," the older man assured, in his typical way, tone buoyed by faith and love.

Some of the tightness in Clay's chest dissipated at the words. He glanced down at the glinting compass, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He gathered his voice, lifting his eyes. "I miss you …"

But his grandfather was gone.

Clay's gaze darted about. Tears leaked, and the lump in his throat swelled.

Shadows pressed in once again.

The lantern was gone, as was the compass. The pain that had somehow receded during the past few moments returned with a vengeance, and Clay squeezed his eyes closed against a wave of dizziness.

He tilted his head back against the rough tree trunk. Warm tears traced lines down his cheeks, and hazy confusion swirled within him. Distantly, he knew that his grandfather couldn't have been real. But that didn't stop him from wishing the older man back.

A new sound met his ears - disjointed voices, breaking in and out. And Clay half-listened, wondering whether they were real, or just another trick of his imagination. He hoped for the latter, knowing he didn't have the energy for a fight.

Painfully, he pried open an eye. A new light bobbed through the trees.

" _Hey!"_ A familiar voice called _. "I got him! He's over here!"_

Clay scrunched his face as the light grew brighter, attempted to curl in on himself as it flooded his vision, blinding him.

" _Clay?"_

Clay's breaths were jagged. Everything hurt, and his head ached and spun. He felt hands on his shoulders, his back, his legs. The world tipped, and he was gently laid down.

"Impressive tumble, Goldilocks."

_Sonny._

Clay's right eyelid was lifted, blasted with light, and then the left. He tried to pull away - but was held firm.

"Definitely a concussion."

 _Trent_.

A moment of gentle prodding and probing his injured leg. "Bullet grazed him, didn't go through."

 _Ray_.

"HAVOC, this is One." A relieved exhalation. "We've got him."

 _Jason_.

A gentle squeeze to his shoulder. "Hang in there, brother. We'll get you out of here."

 _Brock_.

Clay tried to focus on his brothers around him, comforted by their presence – though his blurry gaze swam, and he found himself still searching for his grandfather; even just a glimpse, anything for one more moment. Although deep down he knew it wasn't possible.

"Trent?" Jason asked, voice somewhere close to Clay's head. "We good to go?"

Clay groaned as he felt pressure against the wound on his calf, prodding and probing.

After a moment, Trent replied, tone clipped. "Good enough."

Clay was jostled upright, hands under his arms and behind his back. He tried to hold his head up, but it was too hard, and he felt his chin drop to his chest - his consciousness fading in and out.

"HAVOC, we're moving." Jason's voice came again, this time by Clay's left ear. "Get us out of here." He adjusted his grip, taking a good portion of Clay's weight.

Clay felt himself lurch forward, sensing Jason on one side, and Trent's steady presence on the other. His boots dragged and bumped along the uneven ground, despite his best efforts to get his feet moving.

"Please, for the love of God," Jason's words were directed at Clay, their edges tight with concern, "don't ever do that again."

Somewhere, just ahead of them, Sonny huffed a correction. "What he means to say is – nice shooting back there, kid."

Clay's lip twitched, but he didn't have the energy to reply. He felt Jason's grip tighten, just a little. He leaned gratefully into the offered support, still unable to properly clear his thoughts.

 _Ukraine_ , he thought absently, finally recalling where he was.

Not that it mattered anymore.

He'd trusted that his brothers would find him, and they had. Now, he trusted that they would guide him home.

STSTSTSTSTSTSTSTSTST

_**Three weeks later …** _

Clay sat on the edge of his bed - injured leg stretched out upon the mattress, his other foot planted on the floor. Late afternoon sun streamed through the window, catching part of the bedspread and the lid of the shoe box that sat open before him.

Carefully, he rifled through the box's contents – old photos, a few letters, and a rock with his and his childhood best friend's initials scratched into it. It had been a while since he'd dipped into these memories. Fingers curling around the object he was looking for, he lifted it from the box.

Sunlight glinted off gold. He gently tilted the compass this way and that, following the arrow's smooth movements. Despite the restriction in his throat, a soft smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

Normally, being benched due to injury would have driven him insane. But, these past three weeks had afforded him some time to think – something that, he realized, he was actually in desperate need of.

Lately, his mind had been so full of goals, ambitions, politics, Lindell's offer …

 _Seems you've lost your way, kiddo_.

Clay breathed a heavy sigh.

His dream-grandfather hadn't been wrong.

The bathroom door clicked open, grabbing Clay's attention. He hastily replaced the compass in the shoebox, tucking it safely away.

Rebecca appeared in the bedroom doorway – tailored dress, hair and make-up done. She assessed him as she fiddled with an earring, brow creasing. "Cutting it a bit fine, don't you think?"

Clay chewed at his lip, eyes meeting hers briefly, before darting away. Attending an official dinner was the absolute last thing he felt like doing right now. He didn't recall committing, and yet, here she was, expecting him to follow along. He rubbed absently at his shin, close by the nearly-healed bullet graze. "Got a bit of a headache," he lied. "Really don't feel up to it tonight."

The briefest flicker of annoyance passed over her features, before settling into barely-suppressed disappointment. "You don't want to flash your battle scars?" She tried. "It could be a conversation starter."

Clay opened his mouth – but decided to hold back his response. More and more, he found himself wondering whether their worlds were just too different; whether there was even a place for him on her side of the line. And, if there was, whether he truly wanted to be there. He was beginning to think perhaps not.

Possibly sensing that he was a lost cause for the evening, Rebecca finished with her earring, waved a dismissive hand. "I'll give them your regards," she sighed in resignation. And then she closed the distance between them, gave him a light kiss on the forehead. "Don't wait up."

Clay forced a tight smile, though he knew it didn't reach his eyes.

He watched her bustle about as she finished getting ready. When it came time for her to go, he didn't walk her to the door.

After she'd gone, Clay took one final trip down memory lane - flicking through the shoebox's contents once again. Eyes prickling, he eventually replaced the lid.

Things hadn't been great, lately. In his attempt to find his way forward, he'd somehow lost sight of who he was; strayed from the path, so to speak, without even realizing it.

It was time to find his way back.

Leaning over, he snagged his phone from the bedside table. He opened his message thread with Sonny, shot off a quick text.

_You free?_

He had a lot of work to do, if he wanted to set himself back on course.

It felt right to start with his best friend.


End file.
